Addiction
by alittlebitabsurd
Summary: Oneshot. Why does Wilson do what he does? WilsonCameron... ish


Insert disclaimer, complete with witty and suggestive ideas of what I'd do if I DID own House, here.

This is probably going to be a one-shot, because of my indecision and fear of commitment. (No, I do not have Daddy issues.) Anyway, I guess I was just thinking about the Camson ship, thought it might be interesting, so I decided to poke around the characters' psyches by tossing them together on the roof. Why the roof... I don't know. It's just a cool hide-out, plus there's pretty much no escape, unless one of them jumps, which would make things more interesting... Anyway, look out for just a bit of melodrama... I try to avoid it but I give in sometimes. Maybe I should stop rambling and let the characters explain themselves. I think so. Okay... fic starts... now.

Wilson stepped cautiously through the door and out into the cool April night. He stood silent for a moment watching as Allison Cameron stood with her back to him, gazing into nowhere from the roof of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. She'd been more distant and cold than he'd ever seen her lately. She sullenly took orders but hardly participated in diagnostic discussions. But what really tipped Wilson off was House, who was letting the whole thing slide. Something was up.

"You okay?" he ventured.

"Yeah. Just... needed some fresh air." Her reply had quite obviously been forced past an enormous lump in her throat. Wilson knew she'd been crying--he could smell a crying woman a mile away. He ventured a few steps toward her back. A teeny little voice told him this might not be a good idea, but he ignored it. Allison was his colleague. She was upset, and he was concerned. He told himself that was all, but he knew that wasn't all.

"I assume that, whatever it is that's going on, too many people have already told you that you're strong, that you'll get through it, no matter how much it sucks right now."

"Hah. Yeah. Everyone I've talked to." Her sarcasm was so dark, so devoid of humor. It took a second to sink in.

"You haven't talked to anyone about this? No one?" She didn't answer. "Funny, I never would have pegged you as one to bottle stuff up like that."

Allison laughed. It was exactly the kind of sad, almost hopeless laugh that always melted Wilson, whether it came from Betty, the nurse with the suicidal sister, or Liz, the mother of one of his terminal patients. He cringed at what he knew he would let happen, wanting it so badly at the same time.

"Why shouldn't I? Foreman and Chase have their own lives to deal with, and House will sniff it out on his own anyway--I'm pretty sure he already has. Cuddy would just give me time off--probably the last thing I need."

Wilson struggled to understand what he was hearing. "Well... You must have friends... outside the hospital? siblings? or cousins?..." She cut him off with that laugh again, so intense, so melancholy, almost manic, and so melodic. Before either of them knew it she was crying. She turned around and sunk to the ground against the wall, hugging her knees like a child playing hide-and-seek. Wilson sat down beside her. How could a woman like Allison not be surrounded with friends? House must be right; she must really be damaged. He was pretty sure he shouldn't be doing this, but it was too late. He had a damsel in distress within arm's reach, and he couldn't walk away from her now.

If she had no true, close friends now, had she ever? Had she ever confided in anyone? Hadn't she ever let anyone console her? He guessed not, judging by the way she tensed up when he reached for her hand. She was clearly accustomed to being the one doing the comforting, and he couldn't blame her for being reluctant to give up that control. Once she got past her initial anxiety, she took his hand in both of hers and pressed it to her cheek. It was so cliched, so much like a bad chick flick, that Wilson was convinced she could have had no real experience with situations like this in real life. She had never known true comfort from another person... she didn't know how to accept it, how to give in, let go, even for a moment.

Wilson knew that what he was about to do was so wrong, but he couldn't help it. There was a lonely, desperate woman practically throwing herself on top of him. He couldn't stop himself from acting on that situation. Cameron had found his weakness, his addiction. He started to feel the way he felt with Liz and Betty, something Julie hadn't let him feel in a long time, even before the separation--even when they were still sleeping together. He felt appreciated, needed, heroic, almost, like a knight in shining armor, coming to the aid of the sad, beautiful maiden. He knew this was wrong. He knew he'd regret it. But he didn't stop; he couldn't.

He looked her straight in the eye. "Allison... I still don't know what you're going through, but I do know that you are a courageous, intelligent, compassionate young woman, and an excellent doctor. And you will get through this."

Woah. Yuck. He thought all those things, he really did, but he had no intention of letting them come out quite that way. But she ate it up. And suddenly the world was turning, and Wilson leaned into it, letting the sky slip over his head and behind his back, until all he could see was Cameron's lovely tearstained face and the cold ground behind it. He slid a hand behind her head and deeply breathed in her pain. It was ecstasy--terrible, awful, guilt-ridden ecstasy. He had come to love Cameron like a younger sister, and he wanted to comfort her, not take advantage of her. He knew this could only result in pain for both of them. She was so innocent. He didn't want to lead her on, but he couldn't resist the attraction of a needy woman.

Fin. (beacuse I'm too cool for "The End")

Okay. I realize that doing that on a cement deck on the roof of a hospital could be awfully painful, but I couldn't resist. Something about being outside, in the open, but still in secret, and the starry sky... It was just so perfectly melodramatic. If this fic got longer, I'd probably let House interrupt and save these poor characters from some pretty odd scrapes.

Anyway, there it is, my take on Wilson's motives. A little redundant at times, not always well-worded, and sprinkled with a few cliches for which I was just too lazy to find replacements, but hopefully somewhat insightful. 


End file.
